We've all been there. You go meet your buddy from high school and talk about old high school pranks and that kid who was high as a kite in the middle of chemistry. You call another friend and have a heart to heart about her family and how she's handling her parents' divorce. You have a couple from church over for dinner and a game of cards.
Each friend a separate entity, a different strand of your social web.
When left alone, you have great conversations, you reminisce, you laugh, you cry, you people-watch, you dream about a big scary future. Each friend serves his or her purpose. Each brings out a different side of you. But these varied friends could never assemble at the same social gathering and feel comfortable around each other.
Friends are like different compartments in your social utility belt, but I think if you try to use them all at once, you'll explode. Batman presses one button at a time on his, why shouldn't you do the same?
I remember the first time I noticed the classification of friendships. I turned ten. I had a legit birthday party, lots of kids over at the house, running around hyped up on candy, cake, and that high, that playground fever that transcends what sugar can do - that berserker craze that only the company of other kids can bring out in even the calmest child. There were games, there was cake, there were oh so many presents, including a very cool Beast Wars transformer toy that I lost pieces to in about 5 seconds.
It was during the roundtable cake and candles ceremony that I first noticed it. A lot of my friends were seated in factions. My church friends sat and talked with church friends. My school friends sat with school friends. Some were even sitting in uncomfortable silence, trying to remain in peaceful anonymity.
As a socially developing ten-year-old, this was one of my first recollections of a major social faux pas:
Just because they like you doesn't mean they'll like each other.
Oops. Sorry guys.
This rule has remained true as I've delved and dabbled in my sundry extracurriculars.
My swim team friends belonged in their sphere. My scout camp buddies in theirs. My band friends had their place, as did my fellow cast members in high school theatre productions.
Even now as a married adult, I have friends that like me, but I know them well enough not to mix them with each other.
One friend always makes me feel like I need to be a poli-sci major to even compete intellectually in our conversations. His political savvy is daunting, as is his inherent ability to read people and social situations. He's so dang smart and witty, and he doesn't pull punches. On insults. Or on compliments. It's all so unsettlingly sincere.
Another friend is a fellow I served with as a volunteer from my days as a missionary. We were assigned a very tough, unresponsive area. It really made us rely on each other for sanity, made us "war buddies." He was my best man at my wedding.
I've got a buddy who's a big idea man. We'll get together every once in a while and talk about design concepts or half-baked business plans. He'll vomit ideas like balloons, and I'll stand there with a pin to pop the ones that won't go far. If he's George Clooney, I'm his Brad Pitt, grounding him with the details that will get us into that casino.
I have another dear friend whom I've watched from afar. Her life has served as a sort of premonition, a small peek at the future. When she got married, I saw how happy she was and got so excited for that day to come in my life. She's always one step ahead of me in life's milestones, and her previews always give me hope. She's like a sort of big sister I never had.
Please understand, I'm sure if I blew a conch shell and told these dear friends to "Assemble!" at Starbucks or something, they'd be cordial and polite and get along well enough; we're all adults.
It's not them.
It's me I'm worried about.
My friends each bring out such unique sides of my personality, the transformations would be frustrating for them and exhausting for me.
Does this make me two-faced?
I used to worry about that, but I don't think so.
Our personalities are complex, multifaceted things. There are countless sides to a person's interests, likes and dislikes, quirks, habits, jokes, mannerisms, faults and flaws. One of the great things about having such a variety of friends is that they can pull and stretch you, help you grow, and build you up in so many different ways.
Are your friends different? Would they all get along at, say, a barbecue? How do they build you?
S
Wednesday, July 17, 2013
Tuesday, July 16, 2013
Timing
I have a buddy from my days in East Europe. His verbal propensities are stunning. And hilarious. And our little group always teased him about his odd timing and the abrupt syncopation of his phrasing. For instance, he was running a short meeting, invited someone to share a thought. Then as he dismissed the previous speaker, while looking at his notes and itinerary, he absentmindedly muttered:
"Thank you for that, I guess we'll hear from so-and-so now."
Or that's what he meant to say.
The way he broke it up mangled this harmless sentence into a sarcastic, clueless verbal meandering that for some reason we all thought was oh so funny:
"...thank youuuuu... for THAT! (I guess...) ..."
...
...
(awkward stares around the room)
...
(eyes widen in affront - that was rude)
... "we'll - uh, we'll hear from... so-and-so"
A harmless faux pas that we all laughed about later on.
My point?
Timing.
This past weekend we returned to the small but lovable mining town of Battle Mountain for Grandpa Max's funeral. It was a long and arduous weekend and it's been an emotional roller coaster all week for B. It's impossible to encapsulate all we've experienced in the last few days in one post, but suffice it to say, it's knit us together as a family and it's helped B. and I grow closer.
Grief is something we hadn't yet experienced as a couple, and I got to see a whole new undiscovered side of my wife the past few days. She's sobbed into my shoulder and laughed with family and yearned to talk to the wise and witty grandfather who's no longer here. I've tried to be a support and an anchor to her as best I can. I've never seen her cry this much this often and it breaks my heart to not be able to fix this for her.
B. and I are different. We feel different happinesses, we express sorrow differently. The sorrows and anxieties are still very private things, I think. As much as we want to share everything together, there is a limit to our empathies and sympathies.
When I found out my dad was getting deployed again, I did what I've done before. Clammed up, manned up, stepped up. But the difference was, now I wasn't the one who had to drive kids to soccer or carpool or help make dinner or help mom with the laundry or babysit or any of the previous deployment duties I was used to. I wasn't home anymore. I had my own life, my own place, my own family. And I feel bad, because to a degree I think I kind of shut out B. Poor supportive B. who asked me multiple times what she could do to help, who told me repeatedly not to worry he'd be fine and my family would be more than ok and my brothers and sisters were older now and could help with what I used to do. I went into autopilot: shut out the world, get to work, try not to miss dad too much, show as little emotion as possible and be an anchor for siblings and mom. I shut down, and in doing so I shut her out for a bit.
The tables turned a bit this weekend. I couldn't bring Max back. All I could do was hold B. tight as we visited his grave and she said goodbye before we drove home. The whole town seemed to come for the memorial service. It was just as Max would have wanted: short, sweet, to the point. A few memories and stories were drawn from a hat and selected by his 13 surviving kids, there was a brief bio, a slideshow, a few prayers, and then we went out to the cemetery. Short. Direct. Perfect.
Timing.
As I tried to help gently corral nieces and nephew during the memorial service, B. remarked - not maliciously, simply an observation - that I hadn't cried. Everyone else in the whole room seemed to be sobbing and sniffling. Even my brother-in-law who only knew Max about as well as I did shed a few tears. I didn't know how to explain it. I missed him. I ached to see him again, hear more of his stories, but at that moment, surrounded by family, watching a slideshow of all his memories and wrestling fussy toddlers, my eyes were dry. I laughed at the funny stories the bishop told, but I didn't cry.
Timing.
After the pallbearers brought his casket to the cemetery and a prayer was said, we lingered there to talk and share and visit. We found the graves of Max's two sons not far from his own. More stories, more hugs, more tears. But not from me.
Afterwards we met at the civic center (the only building in town large enough to hold that number of mourners) for a luncheon catered by the Owl Club - the hotel/restaurant/casino in which Max spent so many years working and helping. People were a little cheerier, they consoled each other, telling funny stories about good ol' Grandpa. Nieces and nephews had room and freedom to let out their wiggles.
And suddenly I had no appetite. I couldn't smile. I was so depressed, I was shutting down. I couldn't laugh at the stories. I couldn't look B. in the eye. I excused myself and headed to the restroom, stood in a stall and finally wept like a child.
Timing.
Maybe it was a delayed reaction. Maybe I wasn't distracted by toddlers or other external factors. Maybe I just couldn't let my wife see me cry, not even at a funeral. Regardless, I finally did cry, I had my own private meltdown before rejoining the family. I just couldn't bring them back down again now that everyone was having a good time again.
Timing is everything, they say. I didn't have the best timing this weekend, but they also say better late than never.
How is timing important to you?
S
"Thank you for that, I guess we'll hear from so-and-so now."
Or that's what he meant to say.
The way he broke it up mangled this harmless sentence into a sarcastic, clueless verbal meandering that for some reason we all thought was oh so funny:
"...thank youuuuu... for THAT! (I guess...) ..."
...
...
(awkward stares around the room)
...
(eyes widen in affront - that was rude)
... "we'll - uh, we'll hear from... so-and-so"
A harmless faux pas that we all laughed about later on.
My point?
Timing.
This past weekend we returned to the small but lovable mining town of Battle Mountain for Grandpa Max's funeral. It was a long and arduous weekend and it's been an emotional roller coaster all week for B. It's impossible to encapsulate all we've experienced in the last few days in one post, but suffice it to say, it's knit us together as a family and it's helped B. and I grow closer.
Grief is something we hadn't yet experienced as a couple, and I got to see a whole new undiscovered side of my wife the past few days. She's sobbed into my shoulder and laughed with family and yearned to talk to the wise and witty grandfather who's no longer here. I've tried to be a support and an anchor to her as best I can. I've never seen her cry this much this often and it breaks my heart to not be able to fix this for her.
B. and I are different. We feel different happinesses, we express sorrow differently. The sorrows and anxieties are still very private things, I think. As much as we want to share everything together, there is a limit to our empathies and sympathies.
When I found out my dad was getting deployed again, I did what I've done before. Clammed up, manned up, stepped up. But the difference was, now I wasn't the one who had to drive kids to soccer or carpool or help make dinner or help mom with the laundry or babysit or any of the previous deployment duties I was used to. I wasn't home anymore. I had my own life, my own place, my own family. And I feel bad, because to a degree I think I kind of shut out B. Poor supportive B. who asked me multiple times what she could do to help, who told me repeatedly not to worry he'd be fine and my family would be more than ok and my brothers and sisters were older now and could help with what I used to do. I went into autopilot: shut out the world, get to work, try not to miss dad too much, show as little emotion as possible and be an anchor for siblings and mom. I shut down, and in doing so I shut her out for a bit.
The tables turned a bit this weekend. I couldn't bring Max back. All I could do was hold B. tight as we visited his grave and she said goodbye before we drove home. The whole town seemed to come for the memorial service. It was just as Max would have wanted: short, sweet, to the point. A few memories and stories were drawn from a hat and selected by his 13 surviving kids, there was a brief bio, a slideshow, a few prayers, and then we went out to the cemetery. Short. Direct. Perfect.
Timing.
As I tried to help gently corral nieces and nephew during the memorial service, B. remarked - not maliciously, simply an observation - that I hadn't cried. Everyone else in the whole room seemed to be sobbing and sniffling. Even my brother-in-law who only knew Max about as well as I did shed a few tears. I didn't know how to explain it. I missed him. I ached to see him again, hear more of his stories, but at that moment, surrounded by family, watching a slideshow of all his memories and wrestling fussy toddlers, my eyes were dry. I laughed at the funny stories the bishop told, but I didn't cry.
Timing.
After the pallbearers brought his casket to the cemetery and a prayer was said, we lingered there to talk and share and visit. We found the graves of Max's two sons not far from his own. More stories, more hugs, more tears. But not from me.
Afterwards we met at the civic center (the only building in town large enough to hold that number of mourners) for a luncheon catered by the Owl Club - the hotel/restaurant/casino in which Max spent so many years working and helping. People were a little cheerier, they consoled each other, telling funny stories about good ol' Grandpa. Nieces and nephews had room and freedom to let out their wiggles.
And suddenly I had no appetite. I couldn't smile. I was so depressed, I was shutting down. I couldn't laugh at the stories. I couldn't look B. in the eye. I excused myself and headed to the restroom, stood in a stall and finally wept like a child.
Timing.
Maybe it was a delayed reaction. Maybe I wasn't distracted by toddlers or other external factors. Maybe I just couldn't let my wife see me cry, not even at a funeral. Regardless, I finally did cry, I had my own private meltdown before rejoining the family. I just couldn't bring them back down again now that everyone was having a good time again.
Timing is everything, they say. I didn't have the best timing this weekend, but they also say better late than never.
How is timing important to you?
S
Monday, July 15, 2013
Words, Words, Words
Bravo to those of you who picked up on the Shakespeare reference.
We had a discussion in my English class a few months ago about texting and its effects on relationships. Is the ability to have a conversation through text messages inhibiting our communication skills as couples? Are we less likely to feel comfortable in a face-to-face conversation with our significant other? Is texting a crutch?
Some said it might, most of us weren't sure. It brings up an interesting idea:
Some people are talkers.
Some people are writers.
Some excel in verbal communication, words just pour out of their mouths and serve any purpose the speaker wishes. They say everything right, their grandiloquence is humbling.
Others need a little mental editing to work out and tweak their abstract thoughts until their sentence is sculpted into the beautiful poetry they intend.
One skill isn't necessarily better than the other, I think they're just different avenues to the same destination: communication.
B. is a speaker. She has the confidence and commanding presence of a seasoned public speaker. When she talks, people listen; she has a boisterous voice and a wonderful laugh. I admire that so much in her.
Meanwhile, I sit in another camp; I'm admittedly more reserved and soft-spoken. I won't say timid, though; get me started on something about which I'm passionate and I'll be lawyering you 'til your ears fall off. I'm verbose enough to be comprehended, but I like being able to plot out my thoughts into coherent sentences and guide my audience/listener/reader through the logic and reasoning of my point. This is hard for me to do verbally. I favor writing, which is why I've loved this blog so far. I think I get my point across much clearer in writing. Plus, I can go back and edit my words and tailor them to appeal to my reader much easier than I can pause mid-sentence and plan out my next discourse.
Even as I write this, there are roughly twenty other posts waiting for some final expounding and editing before being published onto the blog.
I can think of a few times when I stopped and edited a text before sending it to B. while we were dating. I'm almost certain this avoided a fight, which is just miserable when you're in a long-distance relationship, because you can't fight it out face-to-face, and even after the fight's over, you have to postpone making up.
That's not to say that I have to verbally tiptoe around B., either.
On those rare instances where I did go back and edit my texts before sending, it was because I saw something in the wording that could be misconstrued as offensive when no offense was meant. We don't bully each other, but we don't walk on eggshells either. We can disagree and still have a healthy marriage.
All I'm saying is, choosing your words is a vital skill in school, work, and especially relationships. Different people communicate in different ways.
I just happen to be better in writing.
How do you choose your words? Are you a speaker or a writer?
Does texting help or hurt you?
S
We had a discussion in my English class a few months ago about texting and its effects on relationships. Is the ability to have a conversation through text messages inhibiting our communication skills as couples? Are we less likely to feel comfortable in a face-to-face conversation with our significant other? Is texting a crutch?
Some said it might, most of us weren't sure. It brings up an interesting idea:
Some people are talkers.
Some people are writers.
Some excel in verbal communication, words just pour out of their mouths and serve any purpose the speaker wishes. They say everything right, their grandiloquence is humbling.
Others need a little mental editing to work out and tweak their abstract thoughts until their sentence is sculpted into the beautiful poetry they intend.
One skill isn't necessarily better than the other, I think they're just different avenues to the same destination: communication.
B. is a speaker. She has the confidence and commanding presence of a seasoned public speaker. When she talks, people listen; she has a boisterous voice and a wonderful laugh. I admire that so much in her.
Meanwhile, I sit in another camp; I'm admittedly more reserved and soft-spoken. I won't say timid, though; get me started on something about which I'm passionate and I'll be lawyering you 'til your ears fall off. I'm verbose enough to be comprehended, but I like being able to plot out my thoughts into coherent sentences and guide my audience/listener/reader through the logic and reasoning of my point. This is hard for me to do verbally. I favor writing, which is why I've loved this blog so far. I think I get my point across much clearer in writing. Plus, I can go back and edit my words and tailor them to appeal to my reader much easier than I can pause mid-sentence and plan out my next discourse.
Even as I write this, there are roughly twenty other posts waiting for some final expounding and editing before being published onto the blog.
I can think of a few times when I stopped and edited a text before sending it to B. while we were dating. I'm almost certain this avoided a fight, which is just miserable when you're in a long-distance relationship, because you can't fight it out face-to-face, and even after the fight's over, you have to postpone making up.
That's not to say that I have to verbally tiptoe around B., either.
On those rare instances where I did go back and edit my texts before sending, it was because I saw something in the wording that could be misconstrued as offensive when no offense was meant. We don't bully each other, but we don't walk on eggshells either. We can disagree and still have a healthy marriage.
All I'm saying is, choosing your words is a vital skill in school, work, and especially relationships. Different people communicate in different ways.
I just happen to be better in writing.
How do you choose your words? Are you a speaker or a writer?
Does texting help or hurt you?
S
Thursday, July 11, 2013
How much does a cookie jar cost?
History was made this week.
For the first time since our wedding, B. and I spent a night under separate roofs.
Now, first off, RELAX EVERYONE. We're fine. She's still stuck with me forever, poor soul.
The reason for our separation should be clear from previous posts. She was able to get work off for the week, and her stepmom was in town for a baby shower, so she hitched a ride home with them to see her dad and be with family.
I, who had less flexibility with classes and work, stayed behind. She drove up with her parents to Battle Mountain yesterday, I'm leaving this afternoon to meet her there.
It was very strange loading her things into her stepmom's car. It didn't remind me of divorce, actually quite the opposite; it reminded me of engagement. We spent our entire dating lives and our whole engagement apart. Once we got married, we were very eager to avoid separation; we'd had our fill.
But these were unusual circumstances, so we weren't too bummed about it. So I spent the night in our apartment.
Home alone.
Rather than get all depressed, I tried to put a positive spin on my newfound abandonment/independence. I didn't know what to do.
Should I slide around, dancing pantless to Bob Seger as did Tom Cruise? Should I apply a shocking smack of aftershave or sled down the stairwell as did a little blonde boy who found himself in similar domestic isolation? Should I start talking to a volleyball?
When my parents would leave me home alone, I'd eat cookie dough left in the fridge or surreptitiously steal sweets from a secret stash they thought I didn't know about. Or I'd even occasionally risk the freedoms allowed by isolated living and not bother to close doors when showering or changing from various stages of undress.
But now...
I bought those sweets.
I walk around almost or completely naked all the time at home. (Don't judge me, we have no A/C and our apartment has stayed at 80 degrees until 1am a few nights. You would, too.)
I don't have a volleyball.
Or a sled.
Or a Bob Seger record.
Being home alone as a kid was amazing. But adulthood, as with many things, has sucked the last marrow of fun from the brittle bones of childish play. I didn't dance. I didn't sled. I cleaned a little, made pasta, did homework and watch two episodes of Mad Men before turning in for the night.
I also called B. to tell her goodnight, something I hadn't done in over a year.
The next morning I woke up on my side of the bed (it was uncomfortable trying to sleep in the middle or taking up more than my usual share), looked over at the substitute pillow she had placed there (a poor substitute - the pillow didn't smell like her, it smelled like laundry), rubbed my eyes and got ready for work.
After a full day at work I went home and did a repeat process: Homework, Mad Men, last minute laundry and tidying, pack, call, bed. This morning was equally empty.
I'll say it. I miss my wife.
It was an interesting experience to test drive life without her around, but also way too depressing to make me want to do it again anytime soon. I'm eager to see her again and hold her close.
That's not to say there were absolutely no benefits. I went to sleep with Chet Baker songs and Marsalis duets wafting into the bedroom from my computer, all accompanied by the soft, relaxing pitter-patter of Rainymood. I watched a youtube video or two in the early morning to wake me up, not worrying about waking sweet B. I drove to work.
But ya know, I thought about her all the time.
Independence is great and all, but I think I've been whipped too long. I miss my best friend. I'm ready to see her again. Soon.
Gone are the days when I enjoy sneaking sweets from the cookie jar.
Now, I'm the guy who baked the cookies. I bought the jar.
What do you do at home when others are away?
S
For the first time since our wedding, B. and I spent a night under separate roofs.
Now, first off, RELAX EVERYONE. We're fine. She's still stuck with me forever, poor soul.
The reason for our separation should be clear from previous posts. She was able to get work off for the week, and her stepmom was in town for a baby shower, so she hitched a ride home with them to see her dad and be with family.
I, who had less flexibility with classes and work, stayed behind. She drove up with her parents to Battle Mountain yesterday, I'm leaving this afternoon to meet her there.
It was very strange loading her things into her stepmom's car. It didn't remind me of divorce, actually quite the opposite; it reminded me of engagement. We spent our entire dating lives and our whole engagement apart. Once we got married, we were very eager to avoid separation; we'd had our fill.
But these were unusual circumstances, so we weren't too bummed about it. So I spent the night in our apartment.
Home alone.
Rather than get all depressed, I tried to put a positive spin on my newfound abandonment/independence. I didn't know what to do.
Should I slide around, dancing pantless to Bob Seger as did Tom Cruise? Should I apply a shocking smack of aftershave or sled down the stairwell as did a little blonde boy who found himself in similar domestic isolation? Should I start talking to a volleyball?
When my parents would leave me home alone, I'd eat cookie dough left in the fridge or surreptitiously steal sweets from a secret stash they thought I didn't know about. Or I'd even occasionally risk the freedoms allowed by isolated living and not bother to close doors when showering or changing from various stages of undress.
But now...
I bought those sweets.
I walk around almost or completely naked all the time at home. (Don't judge me, we have no A/C and our apartment has stayed at 80 degrees until 1am a few nights. You would, too.)
I don't have a volleyball.
Or a sled.
Or a Bob Seger record.
Being home alone as a kid was amazing. But adulthood, as with many things, has sucked the last marrow of fun from the brittle bones of childish play. I didn't dance. I didn't sled. I cleaned a little, made pasta, did homework and watch two episodes of Mad Men before turning in for the night.
I also called B. to tell her goodnight, something I hadn't done in over a year.
The next morning I woke up on my side of the bed (it was uncomfortable trying to sleep in the middle or taking up more than my usual share), looked over at the substitute pillow she had placed there (a poor substitute - the pillow didn't smell like her, it smelled like laundry), rubbed my eyes and got ready for work.
After a full day at work I went home and did a repeat process: Homework, Mad Men, last minute laundry and tidying, pack, call, bed. This morning was equally empty.
I'll say it. I miss my wife.
It was an interesting experience to test drive life without her around, but also way too depressing to make me want to do it again anytime soon. I'm eager to see her again and hold her close.
That's not to say there were absolutely no benefits. I went to sleep with Chet Baker songs and Marsalis duets wafting into the bedroom from my computer, all accompanied by the soft, relaxing pitter-patter of Rainymood. I watched a youtube video or two in the early morning to wake me up, not worrying about waking sweet B. I drove to work.
But ya know, I thought about her all the time.
Independence is great and all, but I think I've been whipped too long. I miss my best friend. I'm ready to see her again. Soon.
Gone are the days when I enjoy sneaking sweets from the cookie jar.
Now, I'm the guy who baked the cookies. I bought the jar.
What do you do at home when others are away?
S
Wednesday, July 10, 2013
All I am or hope to be
I love Washington, D.C.
I was blessed to live close to the capitol for a few years and took advantage of the opportunity to soak in the history, the grandeur of the heart of America. I've stood inches from the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence. I've walked past the White House. I've beheld memorials of great men and great deeds done.
D.C. also has a more personal importance to me. It's where I proposed to B. I also have many fond memories of touring the capitol with my family. There was one day in which we had an impromptu picnic by our car before trekking out to several Smithsonians. Our crumbs were ravenously attacked by hordes of pigeons - none of us remember what else we saw that day, it's just referred to as The Pigeon Day now. I've walked where Dr. King walked. I've stood on the exact step before the Lincoln Memorial where he told the world about his Dream.
I've looked up to Dr. King since I was a child; he's my hero. But what I think I often forget is that our heroes have heroes. King admired Lincoln. I admire him, too. Standing in front of the massive statue seated at the Memorial, surrounded by towering pillars, it's an overwhelming sight. Etched into the walls of the Memorial are the words of the Gettysburg Address.
But those inspired words aren't what comes to mind today.
Instead I remember another passage penned by our 16th President:
"All I am or hope to be I owe to my angel mother."
Today is my mother's birthday. Another year has passed in which I have taken advantage of her presence, her advice, her caring and listening ear. Right now she's on a much-needed and well-deserved vacation in French Canada with my dad, celebrating their years together and the years mom has graced this world with her presence.
Mom,
I know all of the endless hours and years of patience, tolerance, kindness, and hardy determination that went into teaching and raising me. I know I should have turned out a lot better considering the work put in, but I try a little harder every day to honor the years of sacrifice you put into not just me, but five other children who all love and adore you. I remember the months when you bore the burden of leading the family while dad was deployed. I've always admired your faith, your courage, and your natural capacity to love. You are so sensitive to the needs of your family that often you know what we want before we do.
I smile remembering the times I made you laugh.
I ache for the tears I caused.
I live for the days I make you proud.
I am proud to have something in common with a man as great as Abraham Lincoln. My mother is an angel.
All I am and all I can ever hope to become is because of you.
I love you Mom,
S
I was blessed to live close to the capitol for a few years and took advantage of the opportunity to soak in the history, the grandeur of the heart of America. I've stood inches from the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence. I've walked past the White House. I've beheld memorials of great men and great deeds done.
D.C. also has a more personal importance to me. It's where I proposed to B. I also have many fond memories of touring the capitol with my family. There was one day in which we had an impromptu picnic by our car before trekking out to several Smithsonians. Our crumbs were ravenously attacked by hordes of pigeons - none of us remember what else we saw that day, it's just referred to as The Pigeon Day now. I've walked where Dr. King walked. I've stood on the exact step before the Lincoln Memorial where he told the world about his Dream.
I've looked up to Dr. King since I was a child; he's my hero. But what I think I often forget is that our heroes have heroes. King admired Lincoln. I admire him, too. Standing in front of the massive statue seated at the Memorial, surrounded by towering pillars, it's an overwhelming sight. Etched into the walls of the Memorial are the words of the Gettysburg Address.
But those inspired words aren't what comes to mind today.
Instead I remember another passage penned by our 16th President:
"All I am or hope to be I owe to my angel mother."
Today is my mother's birthday. Another year has passed in which I have taken advantage of her presence, her advice, her caring and listening ear. Right now she's on a much-needed and well-deserved vacation in French Canada with my dad, celebrating their years together and the years mom has graced this world with her presence.
Mom,
I know all of the endless hours and years of patience, tolerance, kindness, and hardy determination that went into teaching and raising me. I know I should have turned out a lot better considering the work put in, but I try a little harder every day to honor the years of sacrifice you put into not just me, but five other children who all love and adore you. I remember the months when you bore the burden of leading the family while dad was deployed. I've always admired your faith, your courage, and your natural capacity to love. You are so sensitive to the needs of your family that often you know what we want before we do.
I smile remembering the times I made you laugh.
I ache for the tears I caused.
I live for the days I make you proud.
I am proud to have something in common with a man as great as Abraham Lincoln. My mother is an angel.
All I am and all I can ever hope to become is because of you.
I love you Mom,
S
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